Chuck versus The Last Wish

Chapter 34 – Missing In Action

The steady hum of the engine was strangely comforting after the chaos of the past few minutes. Inside the car, the smell of gunpowder and damp plaster still mingled with the faint scent of Sarah’s shampoo.

Morgan was no longer in a hurry. Before every intersection, he slowed down, cautiously peered around the corner, and only then turned. In the distance, blue lights still painted the sky. Morgan’s hands were still trembling slightly on the steering wheel, and every time the flash of a police car appeared off in the distance, he swallowed hard.

Still, the sound of the sirens was growing more distant.

Chuck stared out through the passenger-side window. “Let’s go back.”

Sarah immediately looked at him, but she didn’t answer right away. She simply watched Chuck’s face, seeing exactly the same stubbornness in him that she had seen whenever he was willing to risk everything for someone.

“No.”

“Casey was still inside.”

“Casey told us to get Müller out.”

“And we’re just going to leave him?”

Sarah’s lips tightened into a thin line. “Chuck…” She paused. “If we go back, we die.”

Chuck didn’t answer. He simply kept watching the street.

Müller tiredly wiped his face, as though the events of the past hour had suddenly come crashing down on him all at once. Then he spoke quietly. “Agent Walker is right.”

Chuck turned around. “Doctor…”

Morgan cautiously turned onto another street. “I’m just driving, but I don’t think going back to the place where everyone is shooting at everyone is a very good idea either.”

Chuck sighed in frustration. “I know.”

Silence settled over the car for a few seconds.

Then Chuck spoke again. “But we have to find him.”

This time, Sarah didn’t argue. She simply nodded. “Yes. As soon as the doctor is safe.”

XXXXXXXXXXX

A few minutes later, Morgan slowly pulled over beside an old phone booth.

The street was completely deserted. The bakery on the corner had its shutters down, and rainwater still glistened in small puddles between the cobblestones.

Chuck checked his watch. “Stay here.”

He got out of the car. The phone booth door creaked open as he pushed it back. Remnants of old stickers still clung to the glass, where someone had scribbled a phone number in one corner with a black marker years ago. Inside, he was greeted by the cold smell of cigarettes and urine.

He picked up the receiver and dialed a few numbers. The line rang twice.

“This is Bartowski.”

Beckman answered immediately. “Are you all right?”

Chuck let out a breath. “We’re alive.”

“Walker, Grimes?”

“They’re here.”

“Müller?”

Chuck glanced back at the car. The doctor sat in the back seat with his eyes closed. “He is too.”

A few seconds of silence followed. Beckman’s voice was much more serious this time. “Casey?”

Chuck lowered his eyes. “I don’t know. We lost each other.”

The general didn’t speak immediately. “Johnson?”

“He was there too.”

“Then this isn’t over.”

Chuck slowly nodded. “I want to go back for him.”

“No.” Beckman’s voice was commanding now. “Your primary objective is the safety of Dr. Müller.”

“But—”

“That is an order, Bartowski.”

Chuck clenched his fist. “Yes, General.”

Beckman’s voice softened slightly. “Casey knew what he was doing. If he’s alive… he’ll find a way to contact you.”

Before hanging up, Chuck added, “Ma’am, we found out something interesting. Johnson is actually the senator’s son, Brett Harrison.”

For a moment, Chuck forgot about Casey as well. Brett Harrison. The name echoed in his mind. Suddenly, several earlier conversations took on an entirely different meaning.

“The access hasn’t been approved yet, but I’ll do everything I can to find out what’s going on.”

“Thank you, General.”

Chuck slowly hung up the receiver. For a moment, he simply stood inside the phone booth. Then he looked back toward the Peugeot. Sarah was already watching him through the glass.

When he climbed back into the passenger seat, she didn’t ask what Beckman had said. She simply asked, “Where to now?”

Chuck stared ahead at the empty street. “First, we get Müller somewhere safe.”

A brief pause followed.

“Then we find Casey. No matter what the orders say.”

XXXXXXXXXXX

The Peugeot glided into the hotel’s subterranean garage two streets over, coming to a halt on the cold, stained concrete.

Morgan cut the ignition.

The sudden, heavy silence was almost painful after the endless roar of automatic fire and screaming sirens. For several seconds, no one in the cabin moved. Their breathing sounded loud, heavy, and unnatural in the still space.

Chuck turned back toward Sarah, his chest still tight with residual adrenaline. “Coming?”

Sarah shook her head. “In this?”

She glanced down at herself, smoothing the hem of the T-shirt.

“I think I’ll stay in the car.”

Only now did Chuck’s mind clear enough to actually take her in—the bare legs, the smudges of soot and drywall dust on her skin. It finally clicked.

“Oh…”

“Could you bring me some pants?” She paused for a beat, tilting her head. “And shoes.”

She lifted one foot, exposing a muddy sole crisscrossed with small, faint scratches from the roof tiles.

Chuck nodded, reaching for his door handle, but Sarah gestured for him to lean back in close. He paused, dipping his head toward the open door.

“Honey…” her voice dropped to a soft, quiet whisper, “…a bra wouldn’t hurt either.”

A small, intimate smile broke through Chuck's exhausted expression—a warm thread of normally cutting right through the chaos of the night. “Two minutes.”

He stepped out onto the concrete, but her voice caught him before he could turn away.

“And my gun.”

Chuck didn't even have to look back to answer. “I know.”

XXXXXXXXXXX

Morgan was already standing by the heavy door to the stairwell, waiting for the doctor to haul himself out of the car.

“I’ll take the doctor,” Morgan said, gesturing toward the stairs.

Müller nodded tiredly, his face pale beneath the dim overhead fluorescent light. “Thank you.”

Chuck turned his attention directly to the doctor, his expression sharpening with a quiet, protective intensity. “Stay in the room. Don’t open the door for anyone.”

“Okay,” Müller agreed quietly.

Morgan stepped over and patted Chuck firmly on the shoulder, sensing the weight pushing down on his best friend. “Relax. I’ll keep an eye on him.”

Chuck looked at him, a faint half-smile managing to break through his exhaustion. “I know.”

Then Chuck’s eyes drifted down, taking in Morgan’s absurd appearance. “And get dressed.”

Morgan looked down at his wrinkled plaid pajama pants, one leg still pulled halfway up his calf from crawling across the roof.

“Trust me,” Morgan muttered, “that’s on my agenda too.”

XXXXXXXXXXX

The heavy slam of the stairwell door echoed through the dark concrete before fading into absolute subterranean silence while Sarah sat in the Peugeot alone.

The worn vinyl of the headrest pressed cold against the back of her head. In the sudden absence of shouting, shattering glass, and automatic fire, her heartbeat sounded absurdly loud—a violent, frantic drumming behind her ribs.

Knuckles throbbed with a dull, persistent ache. Slowing her breath, she uncurled her fingers, forcing the stiff, locked joints to release.

A slight shift in the seat brought a tug of loose fabric along her ribs. High on the side of the oversized T-shirt, just below the armpit, a jagged, carbon-scorched tear frayed the dark cotton.

Her trembling index finger touched the hole, tracing the rough, singed threads before slipping through the gap. Cold, powdery plaster dust coated the skin beneath—unbroken, intact.

One centimeter to the left. A fraction of a second's difference between breathing in this car and bleeding out on a living room floor.

Her arm fell back to her lap, heavy as iron.

Eyes drifting shut, the dark quiet inside the Peugeot collapsed over her. Without the crosshairs, the orders, or the immediate threat of a gun barrel to hold them back, the exhaustion hit—a crushing tide dragging at her shoulders. The agonizing, blank void of her wiped memories, the terrifying image of Casey missing in the firefight, the lingering, phantom terror of losing Chuck—the raw weight of it all pressed into her chest until every breath took deliberate, agonizing effort.

.

XXXXXXXXXXX

The hotel hallway was entirely deserted, the patterned carpet muffling the rapid patter of Chuck’s footsteps against the floorboards.

He keyed the electronic lock, pushed the door open, and stepped into the suite. It looked precisely as they had abandoned it hours earlier in the frantic scramble—the bed still half-made, the rumpled sheets catching the faint amber glow of the city lights bleeding through the curtains. There was no time to dwell on how long ago that felt.

Chuck quickly stripped off his damp, soot-stained clothes and pulled on a fresh shirt and dark trousers, his movements brisk and practiced.

Across the room, Sarah’s favorite dark jeans were draped neatly over the back of an upholstered armchair. Her sneakers sat side-by-side right beside the mattress.

Chuck scooped up the shoes in one hand, crossed to her open suitcase resting on the luggage rack, and quickly rummaged through the packing cubes until his fingers brushed against smooth silk and lace. He slid a black bra out, hastily tucking it into his jacket pocket.

He dropped to one knee and pulled open the drawer of the nightstand.

Resting in the dark interior was a sleek, black-and-chrome Smith & Wesson, accompanied by two heavy spare magazines sitting neatly in the foam cutout beside it.

“Got you…” Chuck muttered under his breath.

He popped the magazine release, checking the weight and alignment to make sure the rounds were seated properly. Full. He slammed it home with a satisfying click, worked the slide to chamber a round, and tucked the sidearm securely into the small of his waistband.

Gathering the jeans and sneakers in his arms, Chuck spun on his heel, bolted back out into the corridor, and sprinted straight for the elevator banks.

XXXXXXXXXXX

The Peugeot’s door creaked open. Chuck stepped close, holding out the folded denim.

“Express room service.”

The tension between her shoulder blades loosened before she could stop it. He turned his back instantly, giving her privacy and shielding her from prying eyes, his gaze fixing on the dark incline of the garage exit. But his skin still burned with the awareness of her behind him. Even buried under gunpowder smoke and the lingering terror of the night, the sheer instinct to shield her was second nature.

A light brush of fingers grazed his lower back. When he turned around, his gaze caught the dark metal tucked into his waistband.

“Spare magazine?”

“Brought two and a full one in the gun too.”

She took the M&P from his hand. Her fingers moved with a fluid, terrifying precision—popping the magazine, checking the seating of the rounds, and working the slide to do a press check in one seamless, unconscious movement.

A sharp, aching wave of relief hit him in the chest. That exact rhythm—the crisp click-clack of the metal—was a physical artifact of their history. It bypassed the amnesiac fog entirely, echoing a thousand identical moments across years of shared danger. For a fraction of a second, the missing pieces didn’t matter; she was right here, entirely herself, moving with a grace no memory wipe could ever erase.

The tight knot in his throat unraveled. He let out a long breath. “I missed it.”

A dry huff of amusement broke through her expression. “I think very few people say that about a gun.”

A crooked smile touched his lips, the familiar, grounding cadence of their banter acting like a shield against the cold. “You’re not one of them.”

“I’m just glad you have pants again.”

Her blue eyes met his, a faint, rare smile curling the corner of her mouth. “Me too. It would’ve been embarrassing walking around without them.”

“I could’ve handled the view.”

The soft, genuine sound of their laughter hung briefly in the damp air, a tiny pocket of light against the oppressive dark.

Then the weight of the night crashed back down, settling heavy over his chest. His expression hardened into quiet resolve. “Then it’s time to find Casey.”

She slid the pistol firmly into her waistband, her gaze locking onto his with absolute steadiness.

“Let’s go.”

They stood frozen in the quiet shadows of the garage, the space between them charged with an unshakeable, profound bond. No words were necessary. They were already thinking the exact same thing.

XXXXXXXXXXX

A car’s headlights swept across the cold concrete walls from the direction of the garage entrance.

Sarah tensed immediately, her fingers tightening around the grip of her pistol. “Stay down,” she said quietly.

A dark Audi slowly rolled into the subterranean parking garage. The front bumper was heavily dented, and a long, deep scratch ran along the left front fender. The car came to a complete stop, and the driver’s door swung open.

Gertrude stepped out into the dim light. The left side of her coat was thoroughly drenched in dark blood, and her face looked pale and gray beneath the overhead fluorescent tubes.

Sarah immediately walked over to her. “Are you hurt?”

Gertrude shook her head. “Not mine.”

Chuck looked past the Audi, his pulse spiking. “Casey?”

Gertrude closed her eyes for a moment, letting out a heavy, tired breath. “I couldn’t get him out.”

For several long seconds after those words left her lips, complete silence fell over the garage.

Chuck finally broke the stillness. “Where is he?”

Gertrude exhaled. “When RAID stormed the house, John was barely standing. He’d been shot twice.”

Sarah’s face tightened instantly. “Is he alive?”

“Yes.”

“You sure?”

“I saw him.” Gertrude leaned back heavily against the hood of the Audi. “The French found him. The paramedics stabilized him, then took him away.”

Chuck took a sharp step toward her. “Which hospital?”

“Saint-Joseph.”

Sarah didn't hesitate for a beat. “Then we’re going.”

Gertrude raised a hand, stopping them both. “Wait.”

Chuck stopped in his tracks. “It’s not that simple.”

“Why?”

“Because they’re not treating him as a patient.” Gertrude reached into her pocket and pulled out a bloody, crumpled piece of paper. “I found out from one of the paramedics.” She handed it to Chuck. “They operated on him.”

Chuck quickly scanned the hurried writing on the paper. “And?”

Gertrude’s eyes shifted away from Chuck and met Sarah’s. “He’s under police guard.”

Silence settled over them once again.

“Armed guards are watching him,” Gertrude added.

Chuck slowly raised his head from the paper. “How many?”

“At least four at the door.”

“Inside?”

“One in the room.”

Sarah narrowed her eyes. “Handcuffed?”

Gertrude gave a single nod. “To the bed.”

Chuck stared at her in disbelief. “Casey?”

“In the eyes of the French, he’s an unidentified, armed American who was involved in a massive Paris shootout.”

Sarah spoke quietly, her tone fatalistic. “They’re not just going to let him go.”

Chuck’s hands clenched tightly into fists. “Then we get him out.”

Gertrude looked at him, a faint, tired smile touching her lips. “I knew you were going to say that.”

Sarah glanced at Chuck, her focus shifting back to tactical reality. “Then let’s start by getting a new car.”

Chuck nodded firmly. “Let’s go back to the room,” he suggested. “Get ourselves cleaned up, and then we can go.”

XXXXXXXXXXX

The blue lights of the ambulance flashed silently across the wet shop windows as it glided through the deserted Paris streets. They weren't using the siren; there was no need. The nighttime traffic had almost completely disappeared, with only a few taxis and the occasional late-night bus passing them in the dark.

Sarah drove the ambulance with effortless confidence. The national-colored uniform and her hair pulled neatly back into a pony-tail made her look like a genuine paramedic. Every so often, her eyes flicked upward to check the rearview mirror before returning to the road ahead.

In the back, Chuck lay flat on his back on the stretcher.

The safety strap ran loosely across his chest, and one arm still had a plastic blood-pressure cuff wrapped around it—left behind by the real paramedics. Above him, the fluorescent tube set into the ceiling illuminated his face with a monotonous flicker.

Gertrude sat beside him on the fold-down seat. She flipped through a patient chart in her hands as if she were actually reviewing official paperwork, pausing only to adjust the slightly-too-long sleeve of her stolen uniform. Unfortunately for them, none of the unconscious paramedics back at the garage had been Chuck's size.

For a few seconds, the only sound inside the compartment was the low hum of the engine.

Chuck finally turned his head toward her. “How's Casey?”

Gertrude didn't look up from the folder. “He's going to make it.”

“You sure?”

This time, she snapped the chart closed. “John is hard to kill.”

Chuck gave a faint smile. “Yeah… I've noticed that.”

Another silence settled over the cab. The ambulance made a turn onto a cobblestone street, causing the stretcher beneath Chuck to tremble gently against its tracks.

Chuck stared up at the flickering ceiling. “I'm sorry.”

Gertrude raised an eyebrow. “For what?”

“If I hadn't insisted on that safe house…”

Gertrude cut him off before he could finish. “Then Johnson would've found us somewhere else.”

“Maybe.”

“Not maybe.” Her voice remained entirely calm. “This isn't your fault.”

Chuck let out a bitter laugh. “You know, somehow, that's what everyone always tells me.”

Gertrude smiled for the first time that night. “Because it's true.”

Chuck turned his head back toward her. “Still, Casey took two bullets.”

“And what do you think he'd say right now?”

Chuck answered without a moment's hesitation. “That I should stop whining.”

“Exactly.”

Up front in the driver's seat, the corner of Sarah's mouth lifted into the faintest hint of a smile. She didn't interrupt the conversation; she simply listened as she kept her eyes on the road.

Gertrude leaned back against the wall of the ambulance. “You know, John never went back for you because the rulebook told him to.”

Chuck looked at her. “Then why?”

“Because he always goes back for his family.”

Chuck fell silent for several long seconds, letting the words sink in. Then he spoke quietly. “Then we're going back for him now.”

Gertrude nodded. “That’s why you’re one of the very few people he truly respects.”

Up front, the radio began to crackle softly in the driver's compartment. Sarah picked up the receiver and spoke into it in fluent French.

“Ambulance unit twenty-two. Two minutes to the Hôtel-Dieu emergency entrance.”

The dispatcher's voice crackled back immediately. “Copy, twenty-two. Trauma team has been notified.”

Sarah set down the microphone. Her eyes met Chuck's in the rearview mirror. “Two minutes.”

Chuck exhaled, steadying his breathing. “Then it's time to be a bad patient.”

Gertrude stood up from the fold-down seat, looked him over critically, and adjusted the white blanket across his chest. “No.”

Chuck looked up at her, confused. “No what?”

“You're going to be a good patient.”

Up front, Sarah reached over and switched on the screaming siren.

XXXXXXXXXXX

The ambulance drove to the Saint-Joseph emergency entrance. Sarah switched off the blue lights with a single, practiced motion.

“We’re here,” she said quietly.

The ambulance rolled smoothly beneath the covered overhang. Two paramedics were already waiting at the bay to assist with the intake.

“Bonsoir!” one of them called out in French.

“Bonsoir,” Sarah replied, her tone carrying the same natural ease.

The paramedic glanced at the patient chart in his hands. “The patient?”

Sarah gestured toward the back of the vehicle. “He’s stable now. He can walk. Just observation. We’ll take him inside.”

“All right,” the paramedic nodded. As they moved past, he called after them, “Take him to Exam Room Two!”

Taking advantage of the momentary chaos around the bay, Sarah leaned in slightly. “Let’s go.”

Chuck hopped off the stretcher in a single fluid motion and straightened his wrinkled T-shirt. “This is surprisingly uncomfortable.”

Gertrude dryly remarked, “Most patients say the same thing.”

Chuck looked around the floor. Only a few people were wandering through the waiting area. Behind the main registration desk, a couple of nurses chatted with bored expressions.

They headed down the primary hallway. A few yards ahead, the door to an unlocked staff changing room stood slightly open.

“One minute,” Chuck whispered.

“Chuck…” Sarah called after him.

It was already too late. He slipped right through the door and disappeared inside.

A few seconds later, he emerged again. He was now wearing a crisp white lab coat, a stethoscope draped around his neck, and a white surgical mask covering the lower half of his face. He adjusted the collar of the coat.

“Well?”

Gertrude stared at him from head to toe in utter disbelief. “You can't seriously think this is going to work.”

Chuck straightened his posture. “I spent years watching Ellie and Devon play doctor.”

The corner of Sarah’s mouth lifted into a conspiratorial smile. “That’s true.”

Gertrude snorted softly. “Of course.”

Chuck patted the pen sticking out of his breast pocket. “I can do this.”

“What are you basing that on?” Gertrude asked, deadpan.

Chuck answered with complete seriousness. “Morgan and I played a lot of Operation.”

Gertrude just shook her head. “That’s a board game.”

“A very educational board game.”

Sarah couldn't hold it back anymore and let out a quiet laugh. “Just try to look like you belong here.”

Chuck gave a firm nod. “I’m good at that.”

“See you by Casey’s room,” Sarah said.

Gertrude looked at Chuck one last time. “Please… don't perform surgery on anyone before we get there.”

Chuck looked genuinely offended. “You trust me that little?”

“Not at all.”

Sarah and Gertrude turned toward the elevators, looking every bit like two paramedics on duty. No one paid them the slightest attention.

Chuck headed down the opposite hallway, clutching a randomly grabbed patient chart in his hand. He had almost reached the corner when the automatic doors at the emergency entrance suddenly flew wide open.

“Stab wound!”

“He’s bleeding!”

“Get trauma!”

Two frantic paramedics rushed through, pushing a gurney at full speed with a young man in his twenties whose shirt was completely soaked in blood.

One of the floor nurses looked around frantically, and her eyes spotted Chuck—white coat, stethoscope, surgical mask.

“Doctor!”

Chuck instinctively turned toward her. “Yes?”

The nurse immediately grabbed him by the elbow, dragging him along. “Come quickly! Exam Room Five is free! Stabilize the patient, the surgeon is on the way!”

Chuck blinked in panic. “I… actually…”

“No time to explain!” the nurse insisted, pulling him forward.

Chuck looked back helplessly over his shoulder.

Across the lobby, the elevator doors were just beginning to slide shut. Sarah and Gertrude stood inside, watching in disbelief as the nurse determinedly dragged Chuck straight toward the exam room.

Sarah blinked in confusion. “You… saw that too, right?”

Gertrude let out a deep, heavy sigh. “Yes.” She paused briefly. “Go up to Casey. I’ll round up Chuck.”

Sarah nodded. “See you upstairs.”

The heavy elevator doors silently closed between them. Gertrude watched the overhead digital display as the floor numbers slowly lit up in sequence—Second, Third, Fourth.

Then she turned on her heel and headed toward the emergency exam rooms.

XXXXXXXXXXX

“Eighteen-year-old male!” one of the paramedics rattled off at breakneck speed, wheeling the stretcher violently into the center of the room. “Stab wound below the left costal margin. Pressure dressing applied at the scene. We stabilized him once, but he started bleeding again en route. Blood pressure is eighty over fifty. Pulse one-thirty. Oxygen running. Two IV lines in.”

Chuck stared at the bloodied sheet, his mind frantically scrambling to process the barrage of medical jargon while simultaneously trying to look like a man who heard this every Tuesday.

“I understand… of course…” he muttered, his voice pitching higher than he intended.

Before he could take a breath, the nurse was already shoving a box of disposable surgical gloves directly into his hands. “Doctor, we don’t have much time!”

Chuck’s fingers moved automatically, pulling two latex gloves from the box. “I… actually…”

“Betadine here, sterile supplies there, monitor’s already connected,” the nurse cut in, pointing in rapid succession around the stainless-steel room.

The young man on the table let out a sudden, ragged groan of absolute agony. Chuck swallowed hard, his heart hammering against his ribs. The terror of the situation suddenly gave way to a stark, terrifying reality: there was no one else in this room to save this kid.

“Of course… I’ll help,” Chuck said.

With trembling hands, he tried to stretch the latex over his palm, but his hand was clammy with cold sweat. One of his fingers caught awkwardly in the rubber.

Of course this happens now… he thought, fighting down a wave of panic as he yanked the rubber taut and pulled on the second glove.

He turned toward the operating table. Dark, fresh blood was already soaking through the thick white dressing, pooling on the vinyl sheet beneath the patient.

For a fraction of a second, the harsh glare of the ceiling lights, the frantic shouting, and the rhythmic beep of the monitor seemed to fade into total stillness.

Then, the static hit his brain.

Images flickered behind his eyelids in a blinding, chaotic burst—a pair of Egyptian pyramids, a vintage sailing ship, a field of elderflower—before collapsing instantly into a crystalline wall of medical data. Surgical lights. A sterile operating theater. Hemorrhage control protocols. Layered wound closure. Vascular clamping techniques. Suture materials, gauges, and tensile strengths. The precise Latin names for every scalpel and clamp. An entire trauma surgery protocol flashed through his consciousness in the span of a single heartbeat, imprinting itself on his mind like muscle memory.

Chuck blinked once.

The hesitation vanished from his eyes. The tremble in his hands was gone, replaced by a terrifying, surgical focus.

“Scissors,” he commanded.

The nurse, startled by the sudden change in his demeanor, handed them to him without a second of delay.

“Remove the dressing,” he said, his voice dropping into a completely calm, authoritative cadence. “Suction.”

The plastic nozzle was in his hand immediately. He cut through the tape and pulled away the drenched gauze, revealing the deep laceration beneath.

“Okay… the source of the bleeding is here.”

The nurse looked up at him in brief surprise, catching the steady precision in his movements.

“Gauze.”

“Right away.”

Chuck applied firm, direct pressure to the torn vessel for a quiet moment, counting the seconds in his head. “Blood pressure?”

“One-ten over seventy-four.”

“Good,” Chuck noted smoothly. “Another two bags of fluids.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

Chuck didn't even look up as he kept his eyes locked on the tissue. “Lidocaine.”

“Here.”

“Needle holder.”

“Here you go Doctor.”

“Three-oh suture.”

The nurse moved in rhythm with him, passing instruments into his outstretched palm faster and faster. Every movement Chuck made followed the last with complete, mechanical elegance—his hands stitching, tying, and clamping as effortlessly as if he had spent the last twenty years in an operating room.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Gertrude cautiously peeked through the half-open door of Exam Room Five.

She stopped dead in her tracks.

Inside, Chuck was working with his head lowered beneath the bright overhead light, a steel needle holder held firmly in his hand. He leaned low over the wound, his posture entirely calm and confident.

“One more clamp,” Chuck said smoothly.

“Yes, Doctor.”

“Good… now suction.”

“Done.”

Gertrude stared at him through the gap in the doorway, her eyes wide in absolute disbelief. How the hell…?

The nurse didn't even look up from the table. “Doctor, the bleeding has stopped.”

Chuck nodded with quiet satisfaction. “Good.”

He placed a few more precise stitches, securing the tissue. He cut the thread cleanly and removed his hands from the wound.

“Bandage.”

The nurse applied the sterile dressing over the fresh sutures.

Chuck looked up, scanning the monitor mounted above the bed. The rapid, panicked beep of the heart rate was finally leveling off, and the patient's pulse slowly began to drop into a safe range.

“He's stabilizing.”

The nurse let out a long, relieved breath. “Nice work, Doctor.”

Chuck simply nodded. “Thank you.”

At the doorway, Gertrude leaned back against the frame and slowly shook her head. “Casey is never going to believe this…”

XXXXXXXXXXX

Sarah silently stepped out of the elevator.

The fourth-floor hallway was lit by a dull, yellowish light. The distinctive smell of disinfectant mixed with the cold air circulating from the ventilation system, while somewhere nearby, the steady, rhythmic beeping of an ECG echoed down the quiet corridor.

She stopped at the corner and carefully peeked around the frame.

A strip of yellow police tape stretched across the hospital room door, indicating the patient inside was under guard. Two gendarmes stood watch outside. Both wore bulletproof vests with submachine guns slung from their shoulders. They weren't bored or distracted; one occasionally glanced into the room through the glass panel while the other kept his eyes trained on the hallway.

Sarah spoke quietly into her earpiece. “I found him.”

A few seconds later, Gertrude's voice came through the comms. “Situation?”

“Two at the door. Submachine guns. Disciplined.”

“Inside?”

Sarah peeked around the corner once more. “One officer with Casey.”

“Still handcuffed?”

“Yes.”

A brief silence followed over the line. “Great.”

A few minutes later, Chuck and Gertrude stepped out of the elevator as well. The white surgical mask still covered the lower half of Chuck's face, and several pens stuck out of his coat pocket.

Sarah was already waiting for them. “So?”

Chuck considered the odds. “We can't silently take out three cops.”

“We don't have to,” Sarah said.

Chuck looked up at her. “We distract them.”

Gertrude nodded. “Us two.”

Sarah glanced at Gertrude, then back to Chuck. “That leaves only one officer inside.”

A slow smile appeared on Chuck's face. “That we can handle.”

“You go in as a doctor,” Sarah outlined. “Checkup. Dressing change. Whatever. You sedate the officer, free Casey, then simply wheel him out.”

Chuck blinked. “Simply?”

Sarah shrugged. “You'll look like a doctor.”

Gertrude added, “And we'll make sure nobody pays attention to you.”

Chuck looked around the empty corridor. “What about the distraction?”

Sarah's gaze drifted toward the far end of the hallway. A heavy cleaning cart stood parked against the wall, surrounded by several tall oxygen tanks and a cluster of metal IV stands. A subtle smile appeared on her face.

“Hospital chaos.”

Gertrude followed her line of sight and nodded approvingly. “I like it.”

Chuck let out a quiet sigh. “For some reason, I don't.”

Sarah patted him on the shoulder. “Because you're the doctor.”

“Which is still absurd.”

Gertrude smiled. “Five minutes ago, you saved a kid's life.”

Sarah’s eyebrow rose instantly in surprise. Beneath his surgical mask, Chuck grimaced.

“I'll tell you about that later,” Chuck muttered, “but I'm starting to worry about my career choices.”

Sarah was already in motion. “Three minutes. When you hear the noise… go in.”

Chuck nodded. “And if the officer asks me something?”

Sarah looked back over her shoulder. “Improvise.”

Chuck let out a dry laugh. “Figured.”

Sarah winked. “It's worked so far.”

The two women silently melted away down the hallway, leaving Chuck alone in the quiet corridor.

He took a deep breath, adjusted his mask, and settled the stethoscope securely around his neck. Then he turned and began walking toward Casey's room, while at the other end of the floor, Sarah and Gertrude prepared to ignite exactly the kind of chaos they needed.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Chuck took a long, deep breath, steadying the sudden flutter in his chest.

He adjusted the surgical mask securely over the bridge of his nose, ran one palm down the front of the crisp white coat, and set off toward Casey’s room with measured, determined steps.

The moment he approached, the two gendarmes shifted their attention directly to him.

One of them raised a hand in a brief, polite greeting. “Bonsoir, docteur.”

Chuck automatically nodded, keeping his posture rigid and professional. “Bonsoir.”

He didn’t slow his pace for a second.

The second officer glanced down at the random patient chart clutched in Chuck’s hand, satisfied by the sight of the official-looking papers, and stepped aside to clear the way. “Make it quick.”

Chuck gave a single, professional nod. “Bien sûr.”

He stepped into the room.

Behind him, the heavy door quietly clicked closed, shutting out the dull yellow light of the hallway.

XXXXXXXXXXX

The room was dimly lit, dominated by the steady, rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor filling the silence. Casey lay motionless on the narrow hospital bed. A thick white bandage covered his left shoulder, with another heavy dressing visible along his side. An IV drip fed into his arm, while his right wrist was secured firmly to the steel bed rail by a handcuff.

Beside the window sat a tanned, attractive female police officer, a newspaper resting across her lap. As the door clicked shut, she looked up. “Bonsoir, docteur.”

Chuck gave a professional nod, keeping his voice steady. “Bonsoir.”

He walked straight to the foot of the bed and picked up Casey’s medical chart, pretending to read the French notes carefully. In reality, he couldn’t understand a single word—he was just buying precious time.

Slowly, Chuck raised his eyes toward the bed. Casey was staring back at him through half-open lids, his gaze heavy and groggy from the painkillers coursing through his system. Chuck carefully raised an eyebrow. Barely noticeably. Then he did it again.

Casey narrowed his eyes, staring at the figure in the doctor's coat for several long seconds. Then, a spark of sudden recognition flashed in his eyes. He spoke in a low, raspy whisper.

“…Bartowski?”

Chuck instantly brought a finger to his lips. “Sss…”

The policewoman looked up from her paper. “Did he say something?”

Chuck turned toward her without missing a beat. “He’s confused because of the pain medication.”

The officer nodded knowingly. “Yes, he’s been talking nonsense all evening.”

Chuck stepped over to the monitor, pretending to check the readings while his heart hammered against his ribs. Now… come on…

Right on cue, a tremendous crash echoed from the corridor outside. Something heavy and metallic toppled over, instantly followed by frantic shouting.

“Hey!”

“Watch out!”

“Oxygen tank!”

A second later, the high-pitched shriek of the fire alarm pierced through the floor.

The policewoman jumped to her feet. The hospital room door flew open, and one of the gendarmes stuck his head inside.

“What happened?”

“I have no idea!”

“Come on!”

Both armed officers bolted toward the chaos in the hallway. The policewoman glanced back at Casey one last time. “One minute.”

She turned to walk out. Chuck spoke quietly behind her. “I’m sorry.”

“What?” she started to ask.

Pffft.

The tranquilizer dart hissed almost silently through the air, burying itself cleanly into the side of her neck. Her entire body tensed for a fraction of a second before she collapsed soundlessly. Chuck lunged forward, catching her before her head could hit the hard floor. “I’m really sorry,” he whispered, carefully lowering her down.

He turned to Casey without wasting a beat. In swift, practiced motions, he peeled the ECG electrodes from Casey's chest, removed the oxygen sensor from his finger, unfastened the blood-pressure cuff, and unhooked the IV bag from its stand.

Spotting the key to the handcuffs hanging from the fallen policewoman’s belt, Chuck reached down and unclipped it. He slid it into the lock—click—and the heavy steel cuff sprang open.

“You okay?” Chuck whispered.

Casey let out a painful groan. “I’ve… been better.”

Chuck grinned. “I’m taking that as a compliment.”

Then Chuck paused, looking down at the unconscious officer on the floor. He picked up the discarded ECG leads. With quick, hesitant movements, he unbuttoned the top of her uniform, revealing the white tank top and tanned skin beneath. Carefully reaching under the fabric, he attached the adhesive pads directly to her chest.

“Sorry…” he mumbled under his breath, as if she could hear him, doing his best to maintain his gentlemanly instincts amidst an extraction.

He switched the monitor back on. The screen flickered to life, and the ECG immediately began tracing a steady, normal rhythm. “At least… it'll look like someone is still in here.”

Casey let out a quiet snort.

Chuck scooped up the officer’s radio, released the mechanical brakes on the bed frame, and grabbed the handles of the gurney. He wheeled Casey smoothly out through the doorway.

The hallway was pure, unadulterated chaos. The fire alarm continued to scream overhead while nurses, orderlies, and police officers scrambled in every direction. Near the elevators, Sarah and Gertrude emerged from the fleeing crowd.

Sarah looked Casey over quickly. “Everything okay?”

Chuck grinned beneath his mask. “The patient was grumbling. According to my diagnosis, he’s recovering nicely!”

The elevator doors chimed and slid open.

XXXXXXXXXXX

The elevator doors opened with a soft chime.

Sarah stepped out first, her gaze sweeping the corridor in a single, practiced motion before she gave a quiet nod. “Clear.”

Chuck pushed Casey out into the hallway. Only a few yards separated them from the secondary bank of elevators.

Then, a guard's radio crackled sharply to life nearby.

“Fourth floor! The prisoner is not in his room! I repeat, the prisoner is missing! Lock down all exits!”

Instantly, the hallway erupted into total chaos. A nurse froze in place mid-stride. Two gendarmes sprinted past them, their shoulder-mounted radios bursting with overlapping, panicked chatter: “Check the stairwells!” “Lock down all elevators!” “No one leaves the building!”

Chuck lowered his head behind his surgical mask, his voice hushed. “I think… they mean us.”

Sarah was already spinning on her heel. “This way!”

Instead of making a break for the main exit, she veered sharp left into a narrow side corridor. At the far end stood an unused examination room. Sarah pushed the door open. “In!”

Dim overhead light greeted them inside. The room was cluttered with two folded wheelchairs in the corner, a mechanical patient lift, and several accordion privacy screens.

Gertrude immediately stepped up to the gurney, her eyes catching the dark red ring the steel handcuff had carved into Casey’s wrist. “We need to get him off the bed.”

Chuck nodded, positioning himself on the opposite side. “One… two… three!”

Together, they carefully lifted Casey’s dead weight from the gurney over to one of the wheelchairs. Casey let out a harsh, tight groan of pain as his wounded shoulder shifted.

Sarah swung the hospital bed rail down with a quick snap. “The bed is too obvious.”

Gertrude draped a heavy blanket over Casey, pulling it all the way up to his chin to conceal his bandaged torso. Chuck stepped in, tucking the fabric neatly around his shoulders.

“Now he looks…” Chuck began.

Casey cracked one bloodshot eye open, offering a faint, menacing grunt from beneath the folds.

“…like an old man,” Chuck finished.

A small smile tugged at Sarah’s lips.

Gertrude stepped behind the wheelchair, gripping the handles. “I’ll push.”

“No,” Sarah countered softly. Her eyes shifted over to Chuck. “The doctor pushes.”

Chuck blinked, pointing a thumb at his chest. “Me?”

“If a doctor is pushing a patient, nobody asks questions,” Sarah explained coolly. “If two paramedics are pushing him… then everyone asks questions.”

Chuck let out a heavy breath. “That makes sense.” He snatched up the chart from the gurney and tucked it firmly under his arm. “All right. Doctor Bartowski on duty.”

Casey groaned again, letting his head roll back.

When they stepped back out into the corridor, two gendarmes were already marching straight toward them. Their heavy boots thudded rhythmically against the linoleum, the dark frames of their MP5s lightly tapping against their tactical vests with every stride. From halfway down the hallway, one of them had his eyes locked directly onto Casey.

“Stop!” the officer barked.

Chuck froze, his palms instantly growing slick against the rubber grips of the wheelchair. His heart thundered against his ribs so violently he felt certain the guard could hear it.

Sarah kept her head straight, her face an unreadable mask, though her eyes darted subtly to catch Gertrude's gaze.

Gertrude gave the absolute slightest shake of her head. No. Not now. Not here.

The two officers kept advancing. Ten yards. Eight. Six.

Chuck forced his shoulders to drop, trying desperately to project the unbothered air of an overworked physician wheeling a patient to a late-night scan, even as his mind frantically tallied the seconds they’d have before bullets started flying.

Below him, Casey opened his eyes a fraction of an inch and gritted out a barely audible whisper: “Bartowski…”

“Yes?” Chuck muttered, keeping his gaze forward.

“If they start shooting…”

Chuck leaned over slightly, as if adjusting his surgical mask. “They won't.”

The officers were barely three paces away now. One of them held up a gloved hand. “We’d like to check the patient.”

Sarah’s fingers slowly, silently drifted toward the frame of the pistol hidden beneath her paramedic jacket. Beside her, Gertrude subtly shifted her posture, anchoring her weight onto her back foot.

In their minds, both women began counting down in unison: Three… two… one…

At that exact instant, the examination-room door directly beside them flew open with a violent slam.

A young nurse bolted out into the hallway, strands of dark hair torn loose from her bun and plastered to her sweaty forehead. She wailed, almost in tears, “Help! Somebody help!”

Both gendarmes spun toward her as one. “What happened?”

The nurse gasped for air, pointing back into the room. “That junkie… he’s gone crazy!”

A tremendous crash resonated from inside—something heavy smashing against the drywall, followed by the sharp shatter of glass.

A man’s hoarse, wild voice screamed from within: “Get away from me!”

Another deafening crash echoed out as an entire metal instrument tray was hurled across the room.

The nurse pointed frantically at the open doorway. “He attacked the doctor! He’s already hit two nurses!”

An IV stand fell over inside with a harsh, metallic clatter. Nearby patients waiting in the hallway recoiled in alarm, and an elderly woman let out a piercing scream. Someone slapped the wall-mounted emergency toggle, flooding the corridor with another burst of shrill, rhythmic beeping.

The two officers exchanged a quick, tense glance. One of them spat out a harsh curse in French. “Damn it…”

The nurse was practically begging now, clutching at the officer's sleeve. “Please! Before he hurts someone!”

The second gendarme unclipped his radio, shouting over the alarm: “This is Delta-Three. Requesting backup at Examination Room Five. Violent patient.”

The radio crackled back instantly: “All units are responding.”

“Let’s go!” the first officer growled. Both men charged toward the exam room.

As they passed Chuck, one of them threw a sharp look over his shoulder. “Doctor!”

Chuck practically snapped to attention, pulling his chart close to his chest. “Yes?”

“Take your patient somewhere safe! No one stays in the hallway!”

Chuck gave a firm, deadpan nod. “Of course.”

The officer turned and sprinted after his partner.

From inside the exam room, another chaotic chorus of shouts erupted.

“Let me go!”

“Hold him down!”

One of the heavily armed officers tackled the frail man to the floor, but the struggle continued as the wildly thrashing man somehow hoisted the heavily geared officer right off him.

“Injection!”

“Watch out!”

Sarah finally spoke, her voice low and tight. “Now.”

Without a word, Chuck gripped the handles of the wheelchair. They didn't break into a run—running would draw every pair of eyes on the floor. Instead, they pushed forward in a rapid, purposeful stride, moving like medical personnel who knew precisely where they needed to be.

The four of them veered around the corner into an adjoining corridor, the shouting behind them quickly fading into the background behind the screech of the emergency sirens.

The floor had been freshly mopped, and the sharp, chemical smell of disinfectant stung their nostrils. Overhead, the cold, harsh glare of the fluorescent lights glinted off the polished chrome armrests of Casey’s wheelchair.

Maintaining their steady, unhurried pace, they moved through the final set of double doors and walked out into the cool Paris night.

XXXXXXXXXXX

The room had finally fallen quiet.

Only faint, gritty traces of the chaos from the past few hours lingered in the space—bloody bandages strewn across the coffee table, two discarded first-aid kits gutted of their sterile supplies, and a couple of half-eaten sandwiches left forgotten on a paper plate.

Morgan sat on the edge of the couch, clutching a mug of lukewarm coffee between both hands. Two doors down, Dr. Müller remained locked safely inside a back bedroom.

Casey lay propped in a half-seated position against the headboard, the agonizing strain of his shoulder and side wounds carved deep into his face, though his familiar, grumpy scowl had firmly returned. Gertrude sat right beside him on the edge of the mattress.

Sarah stepped forward and placed the laptop squarely in the middle of the table. As the screen flickered to life, General Beckman’s face filled the display, her expression unusually grave even by her standards.

“Good evening… or perhaps good morning,” Beckman began, her tone clipped.

No one in the room spoke.

Beckman’s sharp gaze swept over the gathered team. “First of all… I’m glad you’re all alive.”

Casey grunted from the bed, his voice rough. “Barely.”

The general acknowledged him with a brief nod. “The French Foreign Ministry is currently preparing an official protest.”

Morgan’s head snapped up from his coffee mug. “What?”

“According to their official report,” Beckman continued, “an unidentified group with military-grade equipment turned a Parisian suburb into an active war zone tonight. Later, an armed incident occurred at a state hospital after police apprehended one of the perpetrators—whom they were entirely unable to identify.”

Chuck awkwardly scratched the back of his neck, shifting his weight. “When you put it that way… it does sound pretty bad.”

Sarah shot a quick, sideways glance at him.

Beckman pushed on. “Officially, the CIA did not conduct any operation on French territory.”

Casey remarked dryly, “Shocking.”

“That is why there is currently a tremendous amount of diplomatic firefighting going on,” Beckman said after a brief beat. “The French are extremely… unhappy.”

Morgan leaned toward Chuck, keeping his voice down to a harsh whisper. “I think in military language that means they’re really pissed.”

Chuck nodded tightly. “I think so too.”

Beckman brought up another file on her end. “There is, however, an interesting development regarding the assets that were recently transferred into your name.”

Every pair of eyes in the room instantly shifted to Chuck.

“The money. The properties. The corporate interests. The stock holdings,” Beckman listed off cleanly.

Chuck leaned forward, his stomach tying itself in knots. “And?”

“We have rechecked all the documentation,” Beckman stated. “So far, we have found no indication of forgery.”

A heavy silence fell over the room.

Sarah turned to Chuck, her brow furrowing in genuine confusion. “What?”

Chuck stared back at her, his hands raised in defenseless, stunned disbelief. “Don’t look at me…”

Morgan slowly set his mug down on the glass tabletop. “Wait. Are you saying… Chuck is actually a millionaire?”

Beckman nodded once. “It appears that everything is legitimate.”

Gertrude let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh from the bedside. “This is getting stranger and stranger.”

Chuck stared into space, his brain struggling to process the words. “I… I don’t understand this at all.”

“Neither do we,” Beckman replied, her blue eyes narrowing slightly. “But someone did an extraordinarily thorough job.”

Chuck paused, a sudden thought cutting through the haze. “And the manipulated missions?”

Beckman’s expression hardened. “There are some connections. The same digital anomalies have appeared across several CIA operations previously believed to be entirely unrelated. Forged orders. Modified logistical routes. Missing evidence. But we still don’t see the complete picture.”

Chuck nodded slowly. “Harrison could have been the mole?”

Beckman remained quiet for several long seconds before answering. “I don’t know. I requested access to Brett Harrison’s complete personnel file. The request was denied.”

Casey snorted softly from the bed. “What a surprise.”

“Access currently requires a higher level of security authorization than I possess,” Beckman admitted.

Even Sarah looked visibly taken aback by that. “Higher than yours?”

“Yes.”

Total silence descended on the hotel suite for several seconds as the weight of that reality sank in.

Beckman switched to another document on her screen. “Five special agents will take custody of Dr. Müller at five a.m.”

“Where are they taking him?” Chuck asked.

“To a classified, secure facility. Even I don’t know its location. He’ll remain there until the situation is fully resolved.” Beckman turned her focus toward Casey. “The same applies to you. You and Ms. Verbanski will be transferred to a separate safe house. As soon as you’re fit to fly, a military transport will take you out of France.”

Casey gave a single, professional nod. “Understood.”

“Walker.”

Sarah lifted her chin. “General.”

“You, Bartowski, and Agent Grimes will fly home to Burbank on the first morning commercial flight.”

Chuck looked up in shock. “That’s it?”

“For now, yes. The case has officially been closed.”

Chuck offered a bitter, hollow smile. “You don’t believe that.”

A faint, almost imperceptible ghost of a smile touched Beckman’s face on the screen. “No. I don’t either. Someone is still pulling the strings. We just don’t know who yet.”

The screen abruptly went dark.

No one moved. No one spoke.

Finally, Morgan cleared his throat, breaking the heavy stillness.

“So… Chuck is rich. The French hate us. Casey got shot. Sarah stole a car. Chuck played doctor…” He paused, staring blankly at the dark display for a few seconds. “Someone explain how this became worse than last Christmas?”

XXXXXXXXXXX

Sarah and Chuck lay curled up together in bed.

“Verbanski told me you saved a young man today,” Sarah said sleepily, gently stroking Chuck’s chest.

“You mean the surgery?”

“That one.” She yawned.

“It was successful.”

“I’m proud of you…” Sarah hushed, snuggling even closer as sleep finally took her.

Chuck fell asleep with a smile on his face.

XXXXXXXXXXX

══════════════════════════════════════ SECURE CHANNEL OPEN ══════════════════════════════════════

[OVERSEER]Report.

[STORMCLOUD]Paris is a shit show. Silver Fox has been wounded. Müller is with the CIA.

[OVERSEER]Bartowski and his team?

[STORMCLOUD]They escaped. Casey was wounded.

[OVERSEER]Bartowski and Beckman are a problem. Activate Athena.

[STORMCLOUD]Silver Fox is capable of controlling the situation.

…

[OVERSEER]Carry out the order.

[STORMCLOUD]Athena will be activated.

══════════════════════════════════════ CONNECTION TERMINATED ══════════════════════════════════════